


Hand Painted

by Ladycat



Series: With Shifting Change [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“These really don’t bother you?” he asks, just as John adds his own, “My chest hair really bothers you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand Painted

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place within All Hues, the missing scene of With Shifting Change

Rodney frowns, watching the glide of his hand down John’s chest. The curls are tight and flat against John’s skin, rough under his fingers. “I think I liked chest hair better when I had it.”

“Are you saying you’re still gay?” John asks. “’Cause I could probably be willing to share you if you wanted to... experiment. So long as I got to watch.”

Did lines like that actually _work_? Rodney honestly can’t remember if John’s ever used a line on him before—their relationship has been too adrenaline fueled for cheesy pickups in the beginning, and he’s always been aware that John’s a _massive, overwhelming dork_ , beside—although he suspects not. He definitely isn’t as interested in sex as he was a few minutes ago, at least. “Ignoring your erroneous choice of words—you’ll _share_ me?—I have to ask: feeling adventurous?”

John adopts his most understanding, supportive expression: the one that makes him look like he’s about ten seconds from crying like a little boy. “It’d be for the good of science,” he intones, then laughs, curling over himself as Rodney pummels him with smaller, whiter fists.

“Dammit, I don’t like not being strong. I used to be able to hurt you, the way your asinine attempts at humor clearly deserves.”

“Don’t look now, McKay, but you’re _still_ pretty strong.” John quirks a grin, eyes crinkling into something Rodney knows means _serious_. “Stronger than most women.”

“Even Teyla?”

“Teyla is four,” John points out with a magnanimous wave. “You can pick her up and carry her around. I don’t think she’s bench-pressing much.”

“Oh, please, that’s not what I meant.” It doesn’t stop him from feeling pleased, though; John’s not free with compliments, and most of those are backhanded at best. Normally Rodney’s very much onboard with such behavior—if he needs validation he can terrorize his minions into plying him with verbal praise and gifts of appeasement. But it’s still nice to be told he’s good at things, even if it’s just that his female body is stronger than most women’s.

At least, he is until he joins John on the bed and his breasts _move_. He frowns, frustrated with the tight, oddly stretchy feeling that is his breasts sliding to the outsides of his chest. God dammit he is so utterly ready for this to be over. He’s never had body parts _slide_ before. Flop, yes. Bounce, of course. Even his own manly, hairy chest moves a little when he shifts around, especially if he’s on his side, gravity being one of the more immutable laws of physics.

But not like _this_.

“These really don’t bother you?” he asks, just as John adds his own, “My chest hair really bothers you?”

It’s comical, or it would be if Rodney isn’t already so frustrated with the issues his body presents. He’s had to _go to the bathroom_ because of inappropriate thoughts at work, destroying a long-cherished belief that women think about sex more than men, safe with their lack of visible appendages. In the grand toss-up of life, he’s now certain that frantically trying to hide an ill-timed erection beats the damp, _cold_ , kind of squishy feeling of being really wet and unable to do anything about it. Yeah, it’s not like there was a giant, obvious wet-spot to clue people in, but still. _Cold_ , and he’d had to squirm around, disgusted with himself.

Also with John, whose promises had been the cause of those inappropriate thoughts in the first place.

The bed squeaks as John shifts, head propped on his fist as he reaches out, laying his hand over Rodney’s belly. It is not a flat, taut belly, the kind that several of his own female scientists possess. It bulges. That’s not really new or different—fine figure of a man that he was, he’s never been skinny or in the possession of a true six-pack—but this is softer than before, with a weird indentation around his belly button, and it jiggles if he laughs too hard. 

Rodney’s been unable to eat jell-o since he caught his own reflection in the mirror a few days ago. Ew.

“Hey.” John leans down even as his hands glide upward, cupping the breast he kisses the top of. “You’re not gonna make me tell you that you’re pretty, right?”

“No, no,” Rodney says. “I wouldn’t do anything horrible like that.” Except his cheeks are growing hot. How do women manage not being bright red the whole day? He’s pretty sure he never blushed this much before, but then, he’s also not used to John Sheppard calling him _pretty_ and meaning it. Or even wanting him to mean it. “Oh, hey, ow.”

John freezes, lips just brushing the darker pink of Rodney’s areola. “Ow?”

“Ow, ow, stubble, ow!” Rodney glares, neck craning to look down his own chest and John’s hedgehog spikes. “You said you shaved!”

Rolling his eyes, John deliberately rubs his pointy chin into the swell of Rodney’s breast—which makes it jiggle, god dammit, and makes Rodney wish for approximately the eight billionth time that day that he was flat-chested instead of buxom.

That only reaffirms his decision to never use that particular word again. He knows damned well what it means, thank you. He’s _lived it_.

“Yes, Rodney,” John says patiently, and it’s only slightly mollifying that the _yes, dear_ tone of voice is his normal way of dealing with Rodney, regardless of gender. “I shaved this morning, like I always do.”

Rodney glares even harder, shoving John’s head away with a huff of dismay. “I meant shave _recently_. I realize you can’t help your proto-yeti status, but that doesn’t mean I want to deal with it. Go shave now.”

John rolls his eyes but stays propped up on his elbow, looking at Rodney. “You know, most women like my chest hair. _And_ my stubble,” he adds, flicking his eyes down to the join of Rodney’s legs and the hidden, delicate skin of his inner thighs.

Is that—Rodney swallows back his oh-so-easy retort about what John can do with ‘most women’, jealousy still as hair-triggered as his frustration, distracted by the way John’s not quite meeting his eyes, the way his tone isn’t quite as long-suffering as it should be, his leer not quite crass enough.

“... oh my god,” Rodney says eventually. “This is really bothering you. The fact that I’m annoyed with your chest hair or the nine am shadow, which aren’t even the first things on a very long list I made weeks before that stupid, stupid planet, _actually bothers you.”_

Grunting, John rolls onto his feet and pads naked to the bathroom where the faucet obediently starts spitting out water silken enough that shaving cream is entirely optional. Rodney _loves_ that feature, and has since before he had to shave his legs or under his arms, which he’s only done once and never again. Being a woman is hard.

The expected buzz of John’s electric razor never starts up, only the continued hiss of water filling the sink basin. Confused, Rodney shifts and wiggles against body-warmed blankets so he can see into the bathroom, John dusky gold against the off-white tiles, his head tilted back as he uses a straight razor under his jaw, cheeks shiny and wet from where they’ve just been shorn clean.

Huh. ‘Bothering’ may’ve been an understatement. John rarely uses the straight razor, more often then not skipping the electric entirely. The few times Rodney knows John’s brought it out are for major occasions like when he has to wear dress blues or impress some native leader, or a...

Oh. Huh.

Despite the growing revelation, Rodney still doesn’t waste an opportunity to ogle John’s ass. It looks so flat in his BDU’s that even almost a year later it’s still a visual revelation every time. Mm.

Patting his face dry, John sighs his way back to the bed, eyeing Rodney in annoyance as he says, “Better, your picky highness?”

Rodney is aware that he’s still a man. He still thinks and acts like one, most of the time, and the few times he’s aware that he’s not, he writes off as cultural biases reflecting from those around him—which isn’t entirely incorrect. People do treat him differently now that he looks female, and one of the biggest changes is that now people _touch_ him. It’s nothing invasive or sexual, for all John occasionally glares himself cross-eyed when he’s there to witness it. It’s mostly from other women, too: a stroke down his shoulder or back, a hand curling over his forearm. Once, a fussing Miko actually wiped his face before she realized what she was doing and fled to one of the more remote labs for the rest of the day.

Rodney deals with the increased touching as well as he can. Heightmeyer has advised him to speak up only if it really bothers him, and mostly Rodney hasn’t. None of the men are touching him, not with Sheppard and Ronon never far behind, and Rodney’s finding it’s kind of... nice. It’s not something he wants, really, and wouldn’t be upset if he lost it today—oh, god, he hopes he loses it today—but it’s kind of freeing in a way.

Enough that Rodney feels no awkwardness or shame as he leans forward, tucking his cheek against John’s even as he winds his arms around John’s torso, stroking the fine hairs at the back of his neck. The points of his nipples tingle as they’re crushed against John’s chest, dark curls providing interesting friction as they breathe.

“Moron,” Rodney says affectionately, nipping John’s ear before rubbing their faces together again.

“Yeah, well, you said—”

“I said you’re a moron,” Rodney interrupts, “and I must not say it enough.”

It just figures that now that Rodney’s okay with heterosexual sex—well, heterosexual sex with another _man_ —John gets weird. Kissing the point of John’s jaw, it’s surprisingly easy to roll them so Rodney’s on his back, pushing John’s face over his jaw and neck, the hard curve of his chin a bright pinch of pain against Rodney’s breasts until John figures it out, taking his own weight and adding his own kisses. “You like morons, right?” he asks, tongue curling wetly around Rodney’s nipple.

He’s always been sensitive there, but that’s _nothing_ compared to what it feels like as a woman. Instead of the streak of pleasure he’s expecting, tightening a cock he doesn’t have, it’s a low wave that swamps him until it’s almost painful, tingling through his whole body like an oven that heats too fast, going from pleasantly warm to scalding in seconds. Rodney arches, breath caught. “Uh. What?”

“Morons.” John nips the low swell of one breast, then lips his way to the other. He’s rougher with this one, the damp press of teeth creating star bursts behind Rodney’s tightly closed eyes, red marks he licks quiet, hands busy against the indented curve of Rodney’s waist. “You like them?”

“No, I don’t like morons, I—oh, oh, there, do that!”

Chuckling, John obeys. “So you don’t like morons,” he says, letting his tongue swipe over the rim of Rodney’s belly-button, a place of sudden and extreme sensitivity that makes Rodney jerk and curl up every time, caught in laughter that trembles close to tears he doesn’t understand. “But you’re letting me do this.”

Rodney groans, lifting his hips as John trails his fingers down his labia, circling around the hot, slick entrance that’s already sticky and swollen with want.

“Rodney,” John says, aggrieved and teasing and a _bastard_. “Are you a tease?”

“Suck me, suck me, suck me,” Rodney chants, not caring at all about what John’s saying, or that he doesn’t technically have something to be sucked. It doesn’t matter, though, not when John presses his chuckle into the folds of Rodney’s pussy, tongue already eager and busy, familiar even if it’s only the third time they’ve done this.

Working his fingers into John’s hair is normal, forcing tufts of it to stick up in even weirder angles, the jut of his ears the perfect controls if the position isn’t quite right. John doesn’t need the direction, thankfully, licking him from ass to clit again and again, slick-smooth cheeks leaving new trails of dampness against Rodney’s inner thighs as he’s eaten and toyed with as expertly as John normally blows him.

“Oral fixation,” Rodney gasps as teeth are introduced to his clitoris, a needle-sharp hint of pain that has him even more eager. “Y—you have an oral fixation.”

“This would be one of those pot and kettle things, right?” John dismisses. Pushing up to his knees, he hunches over to lash his tongue against Rodney’s clit, sliding two fingers deep inside Rodney’s body. It’s intensely hot, John practically bowed over him, and it gets even more so when John tilts up long enough to look up from underneath his lashes, eyes startlingly green around the dilated pupils, almost artistically hot. “Come so I can fuck you already,” he pants, his cock barely visible even as he goes back to Rodney’s clit, his fingers twisting just the right way and Rodney’s shout is embarrassingly like a sob when he finally comes hot and wet and loose all over John’s hand.

He’s barely had a chance to come down when John bites his hip—hard, the motherfucker—suddenly sprouting three extra hands as he shoves a pillow underneath Rodney’s ass, digs out a foil packet from somewhere, urging Rodney’s legs up and out even as he sucks on the reddening mark high on the swell of skin and bone. “Let me,” Rodney gasps when John fumbles the condom packet.

“Won’t last,” John grits out, pinching the base of his own cock as he eases translucent green latex over the rest. “Lube, lube, where’s the damned lube?”

The laughter starts low in Rodney’s belly, making him tremble even as he pushes up on his elbows, taking John’s mouth in a fast, dirty kiss that leaves them both dazed. “Moron,” he says, half-chuckling. They kiss again, deeper than before and stealing all of Rodney’s laughter until he’s as desperate and ready for it as ten minutes before. “You don’t need it, just _fuck me_ already.”

It’s hysterical to watch John realize _why_ he doesn’t need lube, but Rodney doesn’t have a chance to laugh again. He’s too busy moaning, forcing himself to stay relaxed as John eases inside, Rodney’s legs curling against hot skin and the hard curve of his ribs, the perfect notch for him to cling to.

“Oh, god,” Rodney says, blinking up at John’s face only a few inches above his own. The expression there is inscrutable, so thoroughly Sheppard that it makes everything hotter because Rodney knows what that look means. What it means _here_. John is stock still, frozen now that he’s all the way in, and Rodney can feel himself widening to accommodate, his body sparking every time John breathes and their bellies touch. “Are you going to struggle to tell me something ridiculous and profound,” he hears himself snapping, “or are you just going to fuck me, already?”

This time it’s John’s turn to laugh, a breathless chuckle that ends with him burying his face in Rodney’s breasts, mouthing the insides. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and moves. It’s slow at first, allowing both of them to feel each millimeter as he slides out, then relentlessly pushes back in. It’s ostensibly to give Rodney time to relax, to accept something he’s only felt once before this way, but Rodney knows it has far less to do with his own comfort than John’s.

Last time had been all about exploring, noting the changes between what was before and what is now, getting comfortable with it. This time is about actually _accepting_ it.

John is mouthing and sucking at his breasts like they’re going to vanish forever, leaving bruises Rodney hopes he’ll keep when he switches back. His body feels raw, exposed in ways it never has before as John speeds up, thrusting harder and faster until he’s grunting with effort, burying the sound in Rodney’s sweaty skin. Rodney’s making his own noises, soft coos he’ll never admit to, hands busy on John’s back and hips, gripping his ass and silently encouraging him to speed up even more.

Last time, Rodney had been on top, controlling everything. Now all he can do is lie there, shuddering with each rough jerk of John’s hips, bottoming out until it hurts, an inverted burn that Rodney recognizes even as it sparks yet another wave of pleasure. This is all John, the instinctive need to fuck hard and deep, to spend himself with almost no regard to the one who is being fucked.

Except. Except Rodney knows all he needs to do is making the tiniest noise of dismay, the smallest movement of _enough_ , and John would stop.

It’s exhilarating, feeling the tensile strength above and against him, knowing that it’s all his. That’s it’s always all his, and he’s sobbing through another orgasm before he realizes it, clamping down tight and wet around John’s cock. He’s begging, he thinks, twisted words he can’t hardly recognize and when John lifts his head he can see all of it reflected in his eyes, crazy and wild.

John kisses him, coming with an aching cry Rodney licks free of his mouth.

They don’t stop kissing, riding out the aftershocks until Rodney is boneless, draped messily over the bed, watching as John frowns down the length of his own body, concentrating unusually hard as he carefully pulls out. “Sensitive?” he asks lazily. He feels too good to actually acknowledge the stretched-out ache in his hips and back or the way the backs of his thighs feel raw and pummeled; he’ll hurt like hell in a few hours, but he can’t mind when in a few hours he’ll probably be _male_ again, as well as incredibly sex-sore.

“Mm,” John grunts, knotting the condom expertly. Picking up condoms from Carson—separately—provides an excellent cover, or at least Rodney tells himself it does. It certainly helps with the mess, providing an easy cross-over between sex and sleep, the usual route they take.

Instead, John is wobbling onto his feet and holding his hand out towards the bed. “We’ve got an hour,” he says, abruptly awkward and almost bashful. Is it the naked thing? Hopefully not, since John Sheppard is very nice to look at while naked, something Rodney enjoys as often as he can. “We should shower.”

They have an hour because both of them are blowing off their morning duties in favor of ‘dealing’ with the incipient changes, Heightmeyer-approved and laughingly seconded by an amused Elizabeth. “Actually,” Rodney says with a frown, then a wince as his legs protest holding his weight. John slides an arm around his waist without asking, tucking him against his side; Rodney doesn’t have the balance to object and leans heavily against him. “Actually, we have less than an hour.”

The bathroom floor is cold against their bare feet, but it warms as quickly as the water, three jets to provide the maximum in cleaning and relaxation purposes. Rodney lists, idly shoving his hair out of his eyes and then tugging on a heavy, sweat-soaked strand.

“Yes, you have to wash that,” John says, grinning as he reels Rodney into the water with him, kissing him with the taste of shower-water in his mouth. “You are wearing it down. And why don’t we have a full hour?”

“Teyla.”

Teyla, who is not at all happy to spend the morning apart. She’s aware that something big is looming today, that things might change, and the prospect of change is so terrifying that she can’t conceive that it might be a _good_ thing. She’s been clingy ever since Radek had started crowing, certain the process would work, and had only grudgingly allowed them their two hours this morning.

Rodney isn’t insensitive enough to admit he feels a little bit guilty about wanting this time so much. Mostly he feels happy and sated and pleased with himself, but there’s an iota of guilt there, too.

“If we don’t hurry she’ll come to my room,” John says slowly, eyes widening as they both look through the open door to take in said room: the bed messy and damp, the used condom half-falling out of the trash can, and the dildo from last night still sitting prominently on the floor next to John’s bed, just waiting to be tripped over. Neither of them can smell anything but water right then, but it’s easy to guess that the whole room reeks of sex.

The air filtration system abruptly kicks on with a roar.

“I’ll wash your body if you wash my hair,” Rodney bargains.

“And who’s going to wash _my_ hair, then?”

“You’re the one who wants me to wear it down, so you get to deal with the knots. And you better not pull too hard, I’ve seen you try to brush Teyla’s.” Rodney busily snatches up a cake of soap, rubbing it across John’s chest until the lather turns the curls heavy and almost grey, instead of their normal luxurious black. They’ll fade into grey naturally, Rodney knows, fingering one that curves down the inside of John’s right pectoral. Probably soon.

John has a bottle of shampoo in his hand, face creased as the water beats against it, watching Rodney work. “So _now_ you like my chest hair?” he asks, pouring a swirl of shampoo into his palm.

Deep breath. Patience. Rodney can do patience. Then he smacks John’s ass, water droplets and soap-suds both flying off. “Wash my hair,” he orders, “and shut up.”

“Never.” Both hands working lather into Rodney’s scalp, John uses his hold to drag Rodney closer, thumbs against his temples, nipping at his nose before easing their mouths together. “You better fuck me tonight, McKay. No more substitutes.”

“There’s only been one substitute! And it was a good substitute that you picked out, even, and oh, yes, all right,” he concedes because John is pouting at him, and washing his hair and letting Rodney touch him all over with slick, soapy hands and Ronon better distract Teyla for as long as possible. “Deal. Tonight I fuck you with my own cock.”


End file.
